Hunt On
by ShadowedSword21
Summary: Beasts will rise, and in turn, so will hunts to kill these beasts. Sometimes the hunt will prevail, and others, it will fail, often so, miserably. Yet, it is worth noting that more often than not, it is not the quality of the weapon a hunter wields that determines that hunt, nor is it the armor he wears, but rather, them man himself. It is his will which will either hold or snap.


**The Eternal Hunt**

Yharnam was far from a kind place to the foreigners who came here, seeking the city for reasons, medical or other. Some came for the wondrous medicine, the old blood, as he had. Others came for reasons beyond him.

No matter what became of them, they always appeared to become one of two things. The hunter. Or the prey. Two roles, there was no in between for those of Yharnam.

The saw cleaver whipped out, extending on the hinge, the blade extending, biting into the flesh of the large beast before him. He jumped back as the beast, a previous hunter like him, a Father, if he recalled, howled and swiped at him.

The man that he once was had disappeared into the thirst for the hunt. He could feel a similar thirst, gnawing at the back of his mind, a slight stirring in his own blood every time he fought. It was something he ignored and pushed back against, something he constantly kept in check.

This hunter he fought now was an example of what happened when that thirst overcame humanity and sanity. A mindless beast, driven to fight for the warmth of the peculiar blood that ran through the veins of those of Yharnam.

He jumped back, ducking out of the way before firing off his pistol, staggering his attacker. "Forgive me Father." He muttered, dashing in to finish the poor soul.

He tripped, stumbling over the tombstone, his eyes widening in horror as the Father recovered, roaring in rage as he swiped at him. His feet failed him, the limbs still caught on the rest place of someone long before.

A moment later he tumbled through the air, his back crunching painfully against the far wall. He felt his ribs crack and his back crackle, as if the bones had shattered, and then magically mend, no doubt the work of the powerful blood that ran through his veins. He hit the ground heavily, still mobile, but wounded. His vision flashed a sickly shade of red as the Father closed, his beastial appearance overshadowed by the odd grin that spread across the man's lips.

He snorted, he'd wake in the Dream in a moment. And he'd wipe that smug look off his face next time. "I'll smite you yet Father." He whispered as the beast stopped in front of him, raising a clawed hand.

He sighed, closing his eyes a moment before, ready to wake in the soft grass of the dream again to the scent of lavender, a small kindness to the hunters before they set out again.

A low spurt was his reply, a thunderous crash in front of him. He yelped, opening his eyes to find Father Gascoigne, that was his name, yes, with a spear through his head, impaling the beast to the ground. He blinked, then realizing the feathered end of the spear. It was an arrow! The size of a spear!

Slowly he sat up, then with a rush, dug into a pouch in his belt, with drawing a blood vial and injecting it into his leg. He felt a rush of awareness, recovering from his near death experience, along with a dull throb as the thirst for blood increased in the back of his mind. He pushed it aside, getting up and inspecting the arrow.

"Are you going to look at it. Or are you going to hand the bloody thing back?" A foreign voice said.

He turned, taking a step back as he scanned the grounds, then up to the rooftops. He was further surprised to find the owner of the arrow, perched on the roof, a bow nearly as tall as he was, resting in his shoulders. He hesitated, then reached forward, prying the arrow out of the ground, then with a ground, ripping it back out of the mangled head of what had once been Father Gascoigne.

He raised it, turning back to the man, only to find he'd dropped to the ground, and now stood behind him. The archer took the spear, or perhaps arrow, and threaded it into a slot in the bow, then snapped it. The bow folded around the arrow shaft, turning the bow and arrow, into a large spear.

"A Hunter's weapon." He observed.

The archer turned, then hummed. "The hunt is a blood event. I try to keep my hands clean."

He opened his mouth to reply, only to have the point of the spear shoved in, pressed lightly on the tip of his teeth as the archer leaned close, holding him quite literally at death's edge. "You better get out of this quick as ye can." The man said.

He blinked, unable to respond.

"The hunt is a bloody thing, not because of what it is we do, or who it is we slay, but because of what we become while we do it. We are no better than the beasts we slay when we fall prey to the darkness invading our blood. With every vial we use, with every beast we slay, that pull will grow stronger. You may think you are strong now, but wait until you have slain as many as I have, and the beast claws at the very surface of your mind, threatening to turn you into a beast such as this one." He kicked the corpse once, the body twitching.

"I will warn you now." The archer said. "I will watch you. And if you become a beast. I will kill you. Good luck on your hunt. Stay safe. I will watch over you as long as I am able. There are many hunters in this cursed city. Some will help you. Some will not. Some will have you help them instead. You will find beasts who challenge the very limits of your understanding, you must be able to perceive that much. This realm is twisted, and if you do not have the sight to see it, you are all the better for it."

The tip of the spear retreated, and he swallowed nervously as the archer spun the weapon, slipping it into a sheath on his back. The archer took a step back. In turn, he did as well.

"Who are you?" He asked.

"A hunter. Who is trying to get through the night."

He stared at the man, only realizing now the state of his apperal. He stood tall, taller than him by an inch or so. His cloak, similar to the hunter's outfit he currently wore, was ragged, and stained red. He could only guess how much blood it took to stain a black garment red like this, and with the whole outfit being stained, it seemed this man was no ametuer.

Perhaps this man meant well, but the night had turned him. OR perhaps the hunt. He knew what the man said was true. The more blood one had, more of the old blood, the more bestial they became. Look at the citizens of Yharnam. It was true for them, and he doubted that they took more that a little of the blood. He could only imagine how strong the pull was for this man, how was soaked in the blood.

He had also mention perception, being able to perceive the beasts of the night. He was had to agree, many of the beasts he fought seemed to amaze him, and terrify him as well, they were beyond his understanding. He had several items as well, Madman's Knowledge, things like that, that seemed to expand that perception.

"Thank you." He said finally as the archer walked away.

"Thank yourself. The night will only get harder. Take what you have and persevere. Make it to the morning's light. One way, or another. If you ever get the chance. Get out of this nightmare."

He watched the archer for a while, and suddenly realized something else. They weren't hunters of beasts. No. They were hunters of the nightmares of this realm. They were the guardians of the dreams of man, or at least of Yharnam. He had his prey, but his goal was to end the nightmares. His rest was in the Hunter's Dream, and his fight was here. He chuckled, shaking his head.

"A dream within a dream perhaps?" He suggested to the moon.

The glowing orb gave him no answer, and to him, it took a sinister feel. He sighed, stretching his limbs, finding them feeling weary. The hunt would continue. But would he? He would wonder.

"Do not give up young hunter." The archer's voice echoed around him, heard, but unseen. "Everytime you fall you will rise. And as such, nothing can truly best you. Your enemy is not the beasts, but rather yourself, for if you give up. Then you fall. They can kill you a thousand times, but until you lay down your weapon and content yourself with waiting in the Dream. Until that moment, you are a hunter. But after that, you are nothing. And personally, I would rather make change, then be nothing."

He sighed. "Very well then." He stretched again, cracking his neck before starting up the stairs. "The Hunt will continue."


End file.
